


Taking The Burn

by sonicenvy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:43:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicenvy/pseuds/sonicenvy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They will both burn, short, but bright. And, he thinks, he hopes, it will be worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking The Burn

**Author's Note:**

> After loads of edits and loads of help from my lovely new betas duct-tape-bow-tie and honey-imholmes. This piece started out as a drabble written in one of my school books based off a one word prompt I can no longer remember. I liked it enough that I typed it up, and now we're here. Writing it, I couldn't decide whether it was nine or ten with Rose, so I'm going to leave that decision up to you. The BBC owns all (unfortunately). Cheers!
> 
> * * *

  
That night he falls into an uneasy sleep. When he sleeps, he dreams, when he dreams, well… His dreams are monsters, made of all the burning and dying that he’s seen in his impossibly long life. They are heavily, weighted with centuries of guilt. And then comes The War, as always. He can feel the screaming of his people as they burn, their final moments are entombed in his memory; cruelly remembered with such clarity. He wakes, just then, with a scream. His chest heaves up and down and his mouth is dry, parched by screams that did not belong to him. He can feel his flesh covered in a frozen sheen of sweat. He takes a moment, just laying there, blankets, thrown to the floor, listening to the sounds of the night. It is then that he comes to a realisation: He doesn’t sweat, superior physiology and all. And yet, this all feels so real, so frightening. He is dimly aware of the screams still reverberating in the empty back of his head. He finally opens his eyes, and she is there, seemingly having come from nowhere.  
  
She grabs for his hand, lacing their fingers together, and she settles down beside him, the bed barely sinking with her weight, as though she belongs there. There are no words said, no sound passes between them, to cut through the night. Neither one of them needs to say anything anyway; they both already know. This is more of a matter of knowing that they are not alone, that he is not alone in the universe. He has her, she’s said so herself. Inversely, he admits, in his mind, she has him (for all it’s worth). Yet, he still feels so wrong, so apprehensive about this. She should have a taxicab at 2 AM, kisses in the rain, and a house with a mortgage and curtains. She should’ve fallen in love with some ordinary, human. But it’s far too late for that, as they’re both realising.  
  
He rolls on his to face her, and purses his lips, about to speak, to lie. About to say that he’s alright. About to tell her how awful he is for her. About to send her away. But she hushes him with a quiet finger on her lips.  
  
“It. Is. Not. Your. Fault,” she says, so certain of herself.  
  
She is so disastrously wrong, and he knows it. A selfish part of him hopes that she’ll never know that. Promises that he’ll become a good man. Another part of himself warns him, knowingly that is it just as wrong to indulge her fantasies, let her believe that he is a good man, to deceive her.  
  
“But it is,” he whispers, moving her farther from him in the bed so that her skin will not be sullied by his dangerous touch (a voice in the back of his head tells him it’s far too late for that).  
  
She shakes her head softly. “How many times do I have to tell you, you’re a good man. A man who did what he had to for the sake of everyone else.”  
  
He smiles, sadly. “I’m a murderer.”  
  
She clutches his hand tightly and snuggles in closer to him.  
  
“Hey,” she whispers, “Let me banish your nightmares.” Her voice is so soft, barely audible.  
  
There’s nothing he can say to her now, not really. All he’s certain of in this moment is that he’s in total awe of her and her compassionate, innocent, and totally pure heart. It reeks of wrongness, but in her arms, under her observation, he feels absolution and forgiveness. He should put a stop to this, but he doesn’t. When she looks at him, he feels as though he could still somehow (impossibly) be the man that she thinks he is; a good man. It is so wrong, so very perversely wrong of him; he loves every moment of it.  
  
He snuggles in closer to her warming his cold, alien flesh with the burning heat of her human form, and takes what she’s offering. He decides in that moment that the fight is over. They pull closer still to each other and are both slowly taken away by sleep.  
  
He is nearly asleep, when he hears the whisper again; he swears that she whispers,  
  
“I love you.”  
  
She really, really, shouldn’t. All that can come of this is fire. It is so dangerous, so absolutely wrong. But he is pulled by it too, and the only thing he can do is be drawn in. And so he takes her love, her forgiveness and all else that she offers him, giving himself away in return. They will both burn, short, but bright. And, he thinks, he hopes, it will be worth it.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: sadly, no.


End file.
